Shatranj: A Game of Life

Chapter 1

2010

I stood on the balcony, cigarette in hand, sleeves rolled up, my leather jacket lying on the chair next to me. It was early December and even though it was winter in Karachi, the early afternoon sun blazed down, making it unbearably hot to stay in the shop. I had stepped outside for a cigarette break and hoped that the bazaar would distract me from the preoccupations of the last few weeks, preoccupations that had taken over my mind and made it hard for me to do anything else.

I had started smoking a lot, spending time on the balcony by myself, just thinking about all that had happened. All this thinking helped kill time in the afternoons, those long hot Karachi afternoons. I took the last puff of the cigarette, filling my chest with smoke before taking out another and lighting it with my Zippo. Flick of the wrist, turn of the thumb and the windproof flame burned deep blue and yellowish-orange. I crushed the almost finished butt between my forefinger and thumb and tossed it off the balcony onto the street below.

Cigarette dangling between my teeth, I placed both my hands flat down on the sill and looked down. Even though I had looked over the hustle and bustle of the bazaar from the first floor balcony of Bohri Manzil several times before, there was always something new that caught my eye.

My eyes settled on two men on one of those Honda CD70 motorcycles, zigzagging their way through crowded Raja Ghazanfar Ali Road, shouting out to passerby's to make way. Motorcyclists, I mused, were stuntmen on their own accord, zipping in and out of traffic, something like a cat darting out into the road, uncaring about the oncoming traffic. Many a times, I had come so close to hitting a motorcyclist. Cats might have nine lives but I'm pretty sure motorcyclists had ten.

"Jaldi kaar", Hurry up.

"Hut, hut". Move. Move.

"I wonder what's the hurry with them. Bloody mullahs on a motorcycle," I muttered to myself.

They had hit the cart of the twenty year old who had sold me a phone a few days ago. The phone was one of those Chinese knockoffs, and the man had proudly told me that the phone had the capability to get not only radio stations but TV channels as well, MP4 player capability and a double torch.

"What's a double torch?", I had asked him.

He had then pushed down on a button and two small but powerful lights at the front of the phone had shone straight at me. Impressed, I bargained him down to Rs 2700 from his original quoted price of Rs 4900. I was happy with the phone. It was cheap and I had used the double torch to find my way down the stairs, shining the two powerful strobes in all directions to lighten my way when I had left late from work last night.

The motorcyclists didn't even turn around, forget giving an apology.

"Poor guy. These bearded bandits are such gaddhas. Asses."

Then I reconsidered. It was Bohri Bazaar after all and everyone seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. Survival of the fittest. An if-I-get-there-first-its-mine attitude. Push the other guy out of the way and if you get pushed, you push back harder. Something like Times Square but at the same time, nothing like Times Square. The analogies weren't exactly right for the comparison was stark.

The men did look out of place though with their black shawls covering most of their white shalwar kameez and caps and sunglasses covering most of their face. Most of the men in white shalwar kameez at Bohri Bazaar usually wore the typical multicolored Bohri cap. As for these men, they wore New York Yankees baseball caps. How ironic, I thought. Probably hate America with a passion yet wear something that represents America's national sport. Looking at them reminded me of Mahmood, my stepbrother. I was reminded of the conversation we had had. The words came rushing back.